


The lost Wednesday

by LokiBitch07



Series: Porn short stories. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bottom John, Collars, Cuffs, Dark Sherlock, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Painplay, Restraints
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:56:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiBitch07/pseuds/LokiBitch07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives a package from Moriarty.</p>
<p>And how John lost a full Wednesday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The lost Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> This is the price for my 221(b)-Follower give-away on tumblr. 
> 
> This is dark porn with tiny amounts of plot that once more take us into the deep-dark parts of Sherlock's mindpalace. And what he would do with John if he lost a full day. 
> 
> Archiaart on tumblr has the best fanart of top!lock there is in my and the winners head, so her art is big influence on this story. 
> 
> Read the tags please.

The box arrived on a Tuesday morning, simple brown cardboard and tightly sealed with tape, without any address or return information sitting in the front of the door to his flat. 

Mrs Hudson had come in to make tea or something and had pointed it out to him, asking if he had been expecting anything. 

Of course not. 

Sherlock waited until she had left and then pondered on the consistency and fade-frequency of nail polish which took several hours. 

The package was still sitting on the floor by the door, just where Mrs. Hudson had pushed it to from outside. It was rather heavy when Sherlock picked it up, a good 80 cm x 120 cm square, nondescript box, clear tape, standard heavy-duty.

No visible finger prints or smudges.   
Nothing. 

For a split second he wondered if he should call Lestrade and ask him to scan it, John would probably make him do it, but John was not here, was he?  
He sliced along the edges with a sharp knife and opened to crackling, black silk-paper and a grey envelope on top of it. 

Sherlock looked at the envelope. 

Heavy.   
Expensive.  
Sealed. 

He sniffed it. 

_Moriarty._

He would never forget the scent of expensive cologne he had left on John that night at the pool. 

Sherlock sliced open the envelope and pulled out the white card.

**For you and your pet.  
Enjoy.**

**XOXO.**

There was a small bag taped to the back of the card containing a white powder, a small tag labelling it as Scopolamine.

Colombian Amnesia Drug.

Sherlock placed the envelope down onto the coffee table and grabbed the upper layer of silk paper, carefully lifting it up.   
The items were all separately wrapped in the paper, and Sherlock's cheeks flushed red as he opened them one by one, laying them next to each other on the coffee table.

Thick leather bracelets, heavily padded with big silver rings, a set of four.   
A spreader-bar with 4 sets of rings.  
A blind-fold.  
A ball gag.  
A cock cage.  
A leather Dog-mask.  
A vibrating Dildo Dog-tail.   
A set of paddles, whips and canes.

All the toys very expensive and high quality.

Ridiculous. 

And on the bottom, all the way down he found the collar, thick black leather with a wide O-ring in the front and a small tag that read “Johnny-boy”.

Sherlock snorted and looked down at the gleaming leather and metals, perplexed and slightly confused by the expensive gift.  
Moriarty had not written in a long while, and normally they were sexual taunts or threats, but this....

This went so much deeper.

Sherlock shuddered as he quickly packed the toys back into the box.  
He held up the thick, white card with the drugs attached to the bag and looked at it for a moment.

The possibilities.

Quickly he placed them back in the box and carried it to his room, placing it under his bed.  
He hoped that there would be no drug-raid from either Mycroft or Lestrades side any time soon.

 

x

And the box sat in the back of his mind, Moriarty's visage melted in the front of it, whispering little taunts into his ears, purring ideas and threats, knowing fully well that deep in his subconscious Sherlock was listening.

 

Scopolamine.

A drug that took the free will of the person administered to while keeping them awake and functioning.   
It also produced amnesia and wiped the memory while they are under the influence completely. 

And the knowledge of having it weighed heavily on Sherlock's mind.

x

John Watson was not gay.  
Of course he was not.

Gay is a term to describe men who feel sexual interest only in other men, and John Watson clearly was interested in women.  
And in Sherlock.

Sherlock suggested bi-curious, but John had just snapped at him, asking why they had to label it. 

They had slept a couple of times with each other, awkward affairs that Sherlock had tried to over-analyze and the first time had been dreadful array of fumbling limbs and a topping John that had pressed his hands into the mattress as he had fucked Sherlock. 

Not the best lay the detective ever had.  
Not by far. 

He had researched porn and shown John some of his favourites, they were on the kinky side, scenarios he had enjoyed with others in the past, but John had just given him a look of utter disdain and had refused to even talk about it.

He topped and left in the night to sleep in his own bed.   
Sherlock knew he was a restless sleeper who twisted and turned. 

But still. 

It was difficult having John Watson as a lover.

 

X

Tuesday.

 

It was John's week off.   
They had been in two rather nasty fist-fights that day, and John had been taken down by three guys that had repeatedly kicked him into the ribs and arms, over and over, as he lay curled in a foetal position, protecting his head. 

Sherlock took down his own attacker and then ran to help John – HIS John – and he brought the large plank crashing down onto the first head, watching it connect with a satisfying crunch as if in slow motion, then using the force of the downward swing to pull it to the side, hitting it into the second skinheads abdomen, the crunch of a breaking rip satisfyingly loud over John's groans on the ground.

The third guy had stopped and stared at Sherlock, pulling a switchblade from his pocket, snapping it open.   
Sherlock rammed the wood into his idiotic face, his nose breaking with a wet smack.

Nobody touched his John.

Nobody but him.

John had been bloody and bruised and he groaned as he pushed himself up.

“You all right, John?” Sherlock went to his knees by the blonde man's side, careful hands not yet touching, not sure if he was allowed to or not. 

John nodded and grinned.

“Fucking Lestrade is getting slower every time.”

They could hear the sirens from afar.  
Sherlock laughed and helped John to his feet. 

“Yeah. But at least he will bring the ambulance along.”

 

John had some bruised rips, split lower lip, a black eye, several scratches and was developing bruises all over.

He was fine. 

After resisting to go to the hospital he got himself an orange shock-blanket, pain meds and the order to rest for a couple of days.

Sherlock helped him to bed and pulled him out of the clothes, grinning devilish at the winces that John gave involuntarily, felt his own cock stir in his pants at the flash of blood on John's lower lip or the way he moved, pained. 

It was perfect.

Sherlock did hardly slept that night, staring at the ceiling, the box under his bed never once leaving his mind.


End file.
